


Abandon Mission, You Must Be Kidding

by betterrooms



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:05:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterrooms/pseuds/betterrooms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn Malik, popstar, wants to enjoy his night off in anonymity. Niall's just enjoying dancing like an idiot with his friends. East London queer club night AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abandon Mission, You Must Be Kidding

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal.
> 
> Title from Sierra Leone, Frank Ocean.
> 
> When you first start writing everyone says to write about what you know... so here we are.

It’s midnight in London and Zayn’s restless. The sort of deep restlessness that settles in your bones, makes your joints twitch and fingers tap.

He’s got two days off from any publicity and normally he’d be at home, spending time away from the public eye, just slobbing out in trackies and playing Xbox. This time though, he got his manager to book him a room in his private members’ club in Shoreditch, figured he was paying enough for the yearly membership and he may as well make the most of it.

The first day had been ace, he’d been shopping and bought an awesome vintage leather jacket and had really good, greasy lunch with a guy he knows from the studio he records at. In the evening he’d had room service, a couple of drinks in the bar downstairs with some friends and then snuck out onto the roof terrace and watched the city buzzing below. Then he’d crashed in his room, enjoying stretching out in a cosy bed where he wouldn’t be bothered. He’d stripped all his clothes off and luxuriated in knowing that no one was going to barge in in the morning to wake him up, that he had nowhere to be.

Tonight’s different though, he’s not sure why. Perhaps it’s just that he’s been alone all day. Although he’s naturally pretty introverted, company suits him really. Too much time alone makes him too inward looking, his inner monologue becomes cruel. It’s just one of the contradictions of his character. A bit like how he’d always been too shy to sing in front of his dad but uploaded his videos on YouTube anyway. How he’d chickened out of dancing on the X Factor but had come to life when they’d let him sing. Mind you, being eliminated was a fucking blessing in disguise. He snorts to himself, just imagine if he’d ended up some packaged popstar on TV. No, his way worked better. He wrote his own stuff now, had driven his own career.

He flicks through Twitter a bit, normal stuff. Girls offering to show him their boobs, the odd racial slur, people making jokes they’d never make to his face. He flops backwards on the bed, looking up at the ceiling of his room, at the lights from the cars on the street below dancing across it. He’s bored, kind of lonely and fed up.

Fuck it.

He pulls his laptop towards him and starts googling, pulls up an events listing website he trusts and taps an address into his phone’s Google maps before flicking through his music, putting a playlist on shuffle so it broadcasts tinnily through the inbuilt speakers. He scrambles through his suitcase pulling out a clean t-shirt and some pale denim jeans that he knows would look like dad jeans if he didn’t look anything but. Shoves his feet into his Nike Air Max 1s.

He looks in the mirror and sighs, runs his hands through his unstyled hair and decides that it’s probably best to leave it down, his trademark quiff is a bit conspicuous. He pulls on a hoodie and some thick-framed glasses. He’s not big headed enough to be wearing a disguise exactly, that would mean he thought he was super famous, but… yeah, alright, it’s a bit of a disguise. He just wants to be left alone.

He leaves his club and heads off towards Old Street, keeping his head down as big groups on nights out from Essex push past, cackling as they take over the whole pavement. There’s something about big groups that always makes him feel a little lonely, a little invisible.

It’s weird, at the roundabout by Old Street tube station there’s a huge billboard advertising his album. It’s got the photo from the cover on it, a soft focus shot of his profile. It’s also got reviews all round the edge, five stars and massive compliments. It makes him feel a bit jittery to look at it, a bit disconnected. Like he’s watching himself looking at it, like it’s a scene from a film or something.

By the time he gets to the address he’s looking for he’s cold, and his nerve is failing. Bouncing on his toes a bit he approaches the bouncer who is managing to look both incredibly intimidating and not at all intimidating at the same time, something about being one of the most hipster looking people Zayn’s ever seen and also being so thin a strong gust of wind could blow him over.

‘Alright mate’ he says, looking Zayn up and down and raising an eyebrow.

If he recognises him he doesn’t say, it’s probably not cool to acknowledge something like that.

‘What’re you here for?’

Zayn pauses, he knows exactly what he’s here for but he feels fucking stupid saying it out loud. 

‘Um… I’m here for Twat Disco?’

‘Yeah man, go on in’ The Most Hipster Bouncer in the World, as Zayn has titled him in his mind, says and Zayn realises that he was just getting him to say the name to make him feel a bit uncomfortable. Dick.

He pays his three pounds admission and heads downstairs, pulling his hoodie over his head. The party seems to be taking place in the basement of an office building, there’re plumbing and air conditioning pipes intersecting the room and it’s just got a concrete floor and concrete block walls. He wonders if they’re actually allowed to be down here, if the people who work in the insurance office, or whatever it is upstairs, know what happens here at night. Probably. Everything in London seems crammed in to make as much use of the limited space as possible.

There’s a massive queue for the boys toilets and Zayn knows what that means, sees guys heading out to dance with pupils blown. He also knows better than to get involved, a few hours out of his own head isn’t worth the risk of the story in the press tomorrow. No one’s recognised him yet, but that doesn’t mean they won’t. Nah, any illegal fun has to happen with friends who he trusts these days.

Instead, he heads over to the bar, waiting in the crush to order drinks. He knocks back a shot and grabs a bottle of beer and then stands on the edge of the dance floor watching everyone jump about. He’s out of touch with what everyone’s wearing, not that he ever got involved in the scene long enough to really know, even before he started spending most of his time touring. The girls all still seem to have haircuts with strange shaved patches, but the moustaches on the boys from a year ago have been grown out into full beards. 

He feels a bit young, a bit twinky, even with the dusting of time-off-stubble on his jaw. But then he spots another group of guys around his age, or at least around his level of facial hair growth, dancing like absolute idiots to one side of the room. They’ve got some kind of choreographed dance routine going, but one or other of them keeps breaking down into hysterics and ruining the whole thing. They look ridiculous and Zayn feels a sharp pang of jealousy shoot through his chest. He misses his friends from home, misses having proper (and he curses his word choice inwardly even as he thinks it) banter with friends.

One of the group looks like he belongs here, long legs poured into skinny jeans and an almost sheer t-shirt draped from his shoulders. He has crazy, huge hair that he’s pushed back from his face with sweat. The other three look strangely out of place, two of them are clean cut, shirts buttoned all the way up to their throats and dark jeans ending in clean looking convies. The other looks like a little Justin Bieber type, drop crotch jeans hanging off the underside of his bum and legs ending in huge high-top trainers. It makes Zayn smile to look at him, he’s dressed a little like Zayn used to, back when he was growing up and used to look to the States for style inspiration. Copying the way his icons dressed as best he could using the clothes his mum picked out for him and the trainers he saved up for using his pocket money.

J-Biebz turns then, and Zayn thinks, yes. That’s him. Of the group, he’s maybe not the one everyone would pick out, but he’s exactly Zayn’s type. Skinny, like him, but with a friendly face and a blinding smile. He’s got scruffy blonde hair pushed under a snapback and Zayn wants to push the brim to the back of his head and kiss the end of his cute nose…. and maybe other things. He wants to run his hands over the wiry muscles of his chest.

Right. Zayn thinks. Time to have a plan. He’s going to drink more, till he’s got a good buzz going. He’s going to have a fag, to get his blood pumping. Then he’s going to dance with Sunshine Bieber and maybe have a snog. Fuck. He wishes he was less shy, that he was able to just go over and introduce himself. He’s an international popstar for Christ’s sake. Some guy dancing in a dodgy gay club night in East London should not be intimidating. But, he goes to the bar anyway, just to take the edge off.

* * *

 

Two pints and three shots later and yeah, he’s feeling it. He’s leaning against the wall in the smoking area and he’s drunk enough to start making eyes at people. He knows he looks good, leant up against the 80s brickwork blowing streams of smoke out into the night sky, trying to look intense while he does so. Do enough photo shoots for men’s magazines and you start knowing how to work your angles, knowing that your cheekbones are the sort that make people swoon. Besides, there was that time he was Heat magazine’s torso of the week. And that time he was the first man since Robbie Williams to be on the cover of British Vogue, and he didn’t even have to have a female model with him. OK, he gets a bit cocky when he’s tipsy. Perhaps that’s another contradiction, knowing he’s hot while also feeling so insecure about the possibility of anyone else really thinking so.

He’s so distracted by being brooding and handsome that it takes him by surprise when cute Justin boy pops up in front of him, waves a cigarette under his nose and says

‘Got a light, man?’ in an unexpected Irish accent.

‘Um, sure’ Zayn mumbles, inwardly cursing his own awkwardness and leaning forward to light the cig between Bieber’s lips.

He looks intently into Zayn’s face, raises an eyebrow and says, 

‘I know who you are’ 

Zayn holds his breath, waiting for things to get weird, the moment to be ruined, but instead he winks, extends a fist and says,

‘I’m Niall, mate, I saw you watching us dance like eejits earlier, want to finish these and join us?’ 

And Zayn exhales and bumps his own fist against Niall’s, giving him a half smile, says ‘alright’ and knows that the evening’s going to be OK. (He also makes sure to erase all mentions of Sunshine Bieber in his mind and replace them with Niall, hopes he doesn’t slip up later).

* * *

Niall’s friends are crazy, Zayn thinks, trying so hard to join in their dance, but he can’t get his feet to go in the right direction, feels like he’s all elbows and knees compared to them. Jesus he hates dancing. Niall’s laughing at him, but his eyes are sparkling with it and he knows that it’s fond laughter.

He shouts in Zayn’s ear ‘I remember, you know, you not dancing on the X Factor. I’ve seen it on YouTube. Looks like you haven’t got much better!’

And Zayn pretends to look indignant then laughs, unable to keep it up when he can feel Niall’s breath on his ear.

‘Come here’ Niall says, stepping behind him and pulling his hips backwards while circling his own forwards.

And yep, they’re grinding. And Zayn feels hot, is vaguely aware of one of Niall’s friends wolf whistling at them. He doesn’t care though, concentrates on meeting Niall’s thrusts in time with the music, stretching his torso where Niall’s hands are holding him close. And then Niall’s pressing a soft kiss just above the neck of his t-shirt. He feels a bit self-conscious, but in a good way. Like everyone around them is probably looking at them, thinking about how good they look together. Dark and light. Sun and moon. His sharp features contrasting with Niall’s sweet, open ones. He feels like a bit of an exhibitionist and it’s getting to be a bit much. The softness of the alcohol making his thoughts fuzzy. He doesn’t want to be photographed or for things to get out of hand, so he spins in Naill’s arms, wraps his arms round his neck and whispers in his ear,

‘You’re gonna come back to mine, yeah? 

And Niall looks surprised and pleased, a warm blush spreading over his cheeks. Zayn looks at him, looks at his clear blue eyes and at the trickle of sweat making its way down his neck to the sparse hair in the centre of his chest thinks, ‘I want to lick him’. So Zayn grabs his hand, salutes his friends and pulls them out towards the street.

* * *

By the time they make it back to Zayn’s club he feels almost sober. The brisk, cold walk has stung some sense back into him. He likes Niall, that’s the thing. He’s good company, chatting to Zayn about his job and his friends, how he ended up in London. He asks questions too, asks about Zayn’s tour and the recent Brit awards. He even, slightly sheepishly, asks whether there’s any truth to the Frank Ocean rumours, to which Zayn can only laugh and say, ‘I wish’. It’s nice, how natural he is, without shying away from mentioning that he obviously knows who Zayn is.

He seems impressed by where Zayn’s staying, mutters, ‘I’ve always wanted to come in here’ as they pass through reception. Whistling softly under his breath at the décor.

As soon as his bedroom door shuts behind them, the atmosphere between then changes. Zayn steps forward into Niall’s space, and leans forward, presses a gentle kiss to his lips, before drawing back, saying,

‘Um, is this OK?’

And Niall laughs and surges forward, bringing his hands up to Zayn’s jaw and pressing his body flush against him.

‘Mate, I didn’t think you asked me back just to give me a tour.’

They kiss, deeply and Zayn can feel that buzzy heat building, can feel himself getting turned on. He pushes his hands under Niall’s tank top, feels his smooth skin stretched over taught muscle, brushes his fingertips over Niall’s nipples to make him gasp. Zayn loves his narrow back, the way his hands seem to stretch over most of it. They start pulling each other’s clothes off, snap-back knocked off, t-shirts over heads, fumbling with belts and button flies. Niall’s trainers are kicked off with such force that they thump, loudly on the wall opposite the bed.

Zayn pulls the duvet back, pushes Niall towards the bed and they fall next to each other. He pulls the cover back up, over their heads so they’re in their own cocoon and it’s warm and he can hear Niall breathing. He pushes himself onto his hands, leans over Niall and holds himself there. Looks down, kisses him and thinks, hell yes.

He loves how Niall feels, naked underneath him, legs wrapping round the back of his thighs. He loves that they’re evenly matched, that there’s push and pull between them. That Niall flips them over, pushes his hands to the slats of the headboard and takes him into his mouth with a groan. He loves the noises Niall makes when he does it back. Soft and lilting fucks and shits breaking up the slick noises he’s making with his mouth on Niall’s cock. He loves the way that Niall only lets them rest for a little while after they’ve both come before kissing over the tattoos on Zayn’s chest and sucking a nipple into his mouth, getting them started again.

It’s soft and hard, gentle and rough. And fuck, Zayn wants it to last forever.

* * *

Zayn gets dragged roughly out of sleep by his phone, which is trilling Marimba and vibrating itself across the bedside table. And yeah, right. Today isn’t another day off, he’s got to get up and meet with the label and talk to the director for his next video. He rolls over and looks at Niall, who’s snuffling into the pillow with a contented smile.

‘Sorry man’ he says, prodding gently at Niall’s shoulder, ‘You’ve got to get up. I mean, I’ve got to get up, but you probably should too.’

And Niall grunts back, ‘I’m not opening my eyes, I had the craziest dream that I slept with Zayn Malik last night and there’s no way I’m waking up and going back to reality now’

Zayn laughs and leans over to kiss his shoulder,

‘Well you know, last night I dreamt I slept with THE Niall. Can’t believe it.’ Niall laughs, and Zayn can’t resist, ‘Shame he was so shit in bed’

Niall looks scandalised, ‘I’ll have you know I blew your mind, you dick’ and then kisses Zayn firmly on the lips before pushing himself off the mattress and beginning to gather his clothes, pulling his jeans on. 

And Zayn sits back against the headboard and watches him. Watches him run his fingers through his tousled hair, watches the outline of his ribs emerge as he stretches up to pull his t-shirt on, watches as he throws sideways glances at Zayn as he makes his way round the room. And Zayn thinks, fuck it.

‘So, um, if I ever wanted to find you again, would there be some way for me to do that?’ 

And Niall grins, then catches himself and blushes.

“Well, I already put my number in your phone while you were asleep, you know, just in case. So you could always, like, text?’ He says, like it’s a question.

And Zayn smiles and the beam he gets in response is enough to make him think, yeah I just want to make you smile like that again.

 


End file.
